


Enthral

by Nununununu



Category: Sins of the Cities Series - K. J. Charles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Denial of Feelings, Don't copy to another site, Enemy Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: Nathaniel Roy stands in a cavernous, cacophonous room crammed with people brimming with curiosity and anticipation, and concludes that they must all be idiots.
Relationships: Justin Lazarus/Nathaniel Roy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Enthral

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dissembler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissembler/gifts).



> Canon divergent AU in which Nathaniel never needs Justin's help with the Talleyfer case and how things play out in a world where they remain opposed.
> 
> T/W for references that can be read as implying past dubious consent (enemy!sex that was actually consented to, but this isn't specified within the fic).
> 
> (Date changed to match author reveals; orig posted 14/02)

Nathaniel Roy stands in a cavernous, cacophonous room crammed with people brimming with curiosity and anticipation, and concludes that they must all be idiots. He chafes at including himself in this assessment, just as he chafes at his presence here, but his wisdom and discernment when it comes to such matters are regrettably debatable these days.

Outside the weather is foul and dim, the kind of weather that heralds a real peasouper, and yet still this mass of chatting humanity has come, packing into the music hall for the promised one-off extravaganza, the much proclaimed chance to witness the spectacle that comes with attending a performance of the so-called Seer of London – and Nathaniel is as certain as he ever has been that it will _be_ a performance.

Justin Lazarus doesn’t stoop to public séances. He’s always refused to lower himself to paying home visits to all but the most gentile upper classes – Nathaniel mentally substitutes this as ‘the wealthiest and most emotionally compromised’ and ‘most gullible’ – and access is limited to the private and small group sessions he offers at his own establishment.

The one time Nathaniel engineered an invitation to one of the latter, he found Lazarus’ abilities both inconveniently and infuriatingly convincing. The time after that, in which Nathaniel arranged an individual session, he found it even more so. He’s seen Lazarus a handful of times since then, ostensibly as part of research for articles to publish in the _Telegraph_ ; as part of what some might call his latest crusade – he’s determined to show Lazarus up for the fraud he is, however gallingly long it might take to crack him.

So far Nathaniel has had uncharacteristically – and frustratingly – little success. He has however established so far that Lazarus as a man is both inconvenient and infuriating, that he goes wonderfully to his knees when demanded or of his own volition, and that he will stoop and lower himself by committing all sorts of debasing acts, and never stop complaining throughout.

He also moans until his voice breaks when Nathaniel stands over him, taking advantage of his superior height, and sucks on Nathaniel’s fingers as enthusiastically as another man might take his cock, and will give Nathaniel a gloriously rough buggering if the mood strikes him but act like a wounded cat right after.

In short, Lazarus is a prickly offensive malefactor, the worst of all reprobates, and Nathaniel would be well off without him. Obviously.

He’s in the midst of reminding himself of this salient fact when the lights dim in the music hall – funded by two of Lazarus’ mysterious ‘benefactors’ for this farce of a performance – and the Seer of London steps out onto the stage, as narrow-shouldered, scrubby goateed and unprepossessing as always, his hands out raised.

The crowd falls silent and, shockingly, stays that way throughout the entire séance. It’s electrifying – Nathaniel has never seen; never expected to see – anything like it. It’s also once again _damned_ compelling; different tricks than ones Nathaniel's seen previously, done on a grander scale yet still subtle enough to be highly emotional. Lazarus’ St Sebastian performance is more captivating than ever, more than one member of the audience seeming like they’re coming close to a swoon.

Nathaniel loathes and detests the man utterly, or so he tells himself.

He insists on access to Lazarus’ private dressing room after the gas lights are turned back up and people starting slowly, shakily filing out of the music hall, speaking in rapt whispers much like Clem has a tendency to when he speaks of the Flying Starlings.

Nathaniel’s feeling quite unlike himself by the time a stagehand raps his knuckles on the door that leads to Lazarus and the little maid Sukey pops out – apparently a permanent fixture where Lazarus is involved, seemingly regardless of the location – and scowls at him.

“Oh, it’s you then,” she says, while the stagehand goggles at her lack of respect for a gentleman. Sukey pulls an awful face at the man and he flees with a bob of the head and a ‘yes sir’ at Nathaniel’s wave of a hand. Transferring the terrible expression to him, the little maid kicks the door open, “In you go then. Sir. Twenty minutes is all he’s got left in there.” She sniffs, “Just saying.”

“Thank you, Sukey,” Nathaniel says repressively, and she snorts in an unmistakable attempt to cover a less than appropriate retort, stalking off down the narrow corridor, muttering something about joining Emma.

“Bullying the stagehands, are you?” comes Justin’s voice from the dressing room when Nathaniel ducks inside, and it’s undeniable that he _is_ Justin here, when they’re in private – or semi-private; they would do well to remember how close other people are to them and how voices carry.

“Hastily concealing the accoutrements of your illusions before you are uncovered as the fraud you are?” Nathaniel returns.

“You should know I have no need for any form of artifice; simply a willing and open mind,” Justin is seated in front of a great mirror hung from the far wall of the cramped dressing room, the place stuffed near full to bursting with the glitter and shine of the music halls’ usual performers. Nathaniel spares a thought as to whether any of the outfits belong to the Flying Starlings and trusts Clem would know. Justin sighs, “Alas but a non-believer will remain blinkered whatever one might do to help him perceive.”

“You are feckless and rely entirely upon artifice,” Nathaniel steps up close behind him, thighs brushing the back of the chair Justin is reclining within, the smaller man’s face pale in the reflection, those grey eyes of his daring as Justin looks otherwise calmly up at him, “Your nature remains the same no matter how many you ensnare.”

The tension rising between them in the small room is undeniable. Nathaniel wants to say harsh words, hurtful words, just as he wants Justin to bite back at him; to lose control of themselves in arguing. He wants even more so to place his hand around the vulnerable stretch of Justin’s exposed throat and use the touch to compel the other man up to him.

He buries his fingers in Justin’s hair instead, thumb tracing an ear, fingers finding the curve of his jaw. It’s not usual for them to touch each other like this; Justin’s hands betray a slight stiffness he is trying to repress where he grips the arm of the chair, an inescapable hint of wariness behind his sardonic smile.

“I take it you have come to congratulate me on winning our wager,” he drawls, “Did you think that if you openly challenged me to a public demonstration of my capabilities I would decline?”

“It is true I did not think you in possession of enough shame to refrain,” Nathaniel allows. He tightens his fingers in that silken hair, seeing a faint flicker around the corners of Justin’s eyes, “I call and you answer, it seems.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Justin spits, but he’s leaning into the touch, not away, “You wrote an article in the _Telegraph_ challenging me; did you not think of how much publicity that provided? I have been forced to turn clients away; I have been so inundated with requests, I have bookings for half a _year_ in advance. I was already the most popular medium in London; now I am also the most sought after, thanks to yourself.”

“I have heard talk that Mrs Cook is after your blood,” Nathaniel is not _pleased_ on some level, he is certain, just as he had not stood in that grubby crowd and gazed at the spectacle of Justin on stage and been enthralled. To feel in such a manner would be ridiculous. “It is true you do not deserve any of the credit.”

“On the contrary,” Justin tugs just a little against Nathaniel’s grip and so Nathaniel frees him, but finds it is only so Justin can swing around on his chair to face him. This brings his face very close to Nathaniel’s crotch. The light in Justin’s grey eyes is unearthly, “I believe I deserve _all_ the credit.”

“You always do believe that,” Sighing, Nathaniel places his hand lightly down this time on the back of Justin’s neck, feeling a little shock pass up as if from the other man’s skin into his fingertips. Justin would barely need to lean forwards at all and that sinful mouth of his would come into contact with Nathaniel’s half hard cock within his trousers.

How he wants him to do it. How he wants to bend Justin over that cluttered dressing table; to bend over _for_ him.

“Ten minutes, ratface!” Sukey makes them both jump with her hearty thump on the door, “Get your fancy gentleman to get on with it.”

The sound of Emma giggling is clearly audible through the cheap wood.

“Fuck off!” Justin shouts back without pulling back to do so, making Nathaniel wince. His fingers dip under Justin’s collar, seeking out the knobble of spine.

“Must you always be so vulgar?” he complains.

“Must you always be such a pompous prick?” Justin retorts and tips his head, pretending to muse, “Where were we? Ah yes, I do believe the spirits are requesting I do something.” He pulls what is probably supposed to be a shocked expression, “Goodness me. How dreadful. How could they.”

“What?” Nathaniel is well-aware where this is heading. He can’t quite bring himself to laugh at what feels almost like play acting this time and is most definitely an excuse. It seems today isn’t a day for hard hands on wrists or to shove at each other as much as against. “I suppose you’ll give in to them as you always do,” he says as if resigned.

“Oh, I’m helpless against it,” There’s definitely an answering sparkle in Justin’s eyes as he nestles forwards that much further, “It’s not my fault at all, sir; they’re insisting I do this.”

But rather than allowing his hot mouth to brush against the cock that's rapidly stiffening to full hardness, he nuzzles in until he can open Nathaniel’s trousers with his teeth.

After that, he gets to work.

Nathaniel would like to think ten minutes won’t be enough. It’s _not_ enough, not really – not nearly enough for all the things a dark part of him hungers to do to this man. But it is enough for him to come off, stifling a curse behind gritted teeth, spilling hot and thick in that mouth that spews such slander and tells such pretty lies. Justin sucks him through it, holds the head of Nathaniel’s cock with his lips and tongues the slit until Nathaniel’s hissing, gripping his shoulders with what must be bruising force.

“ _Enough_ ,” he has to insist in the end, as low as he’s able, and hauls Justin upwards with one hand, yanking the other man off balance with the chair between them, one of Justin’s knees on the seat and his other foot fishing for the floor.

“ _Liar_ ,” Justin shoots back and Nathaniel nearly laughs in his face at the audacity, even as he drags his free hand down to grasp at the other man’s rigid cock through his clothes, hard enough that Justin spasms and swears.

Nathaniel likes how this part of Justin betrays him, how Justin's cock alone out of all of his body does not lie – or Nathaniel tells himself it does not lie – and he works at it through fabric that’s never as fine as it appears, even Justin’s clothing as false as the rest of him. Winding Justin up until he’s clutching Nathaniel’s biceps, his full weight near sagging against him, breathless and red faced and gratifyingly close to pleading.

“ _R-Roy_ ,” he looks entirely like he comes very close to saying Nathaniel’s first name aloud.

There’s a series of thumps at the door.

“No time left! I mean it!” Sukey hollers, and Nathaniel can’t quite suppress his grin of triumph at Justin’s stifled howl as he pulls his hand back, leaving the other man unsatisfied.

“Oh, I’ll get you for this,” It’s Justin speaking, not St Sebastian or any of the affectations he puts on, vicious and knife-sharp and breath-taking, his straining erection obvious however he prises his hands away from Nathaniel to tug at his jacket.

“There there,” Nathaniel gives him a consolatory pat right on that cock. They’re speaking in desperate whispers.

“You condescending bastard; _I’ll get you back_ ,” Justin’s whole body jolts as if struck. He’s shaking, clinging onto the chair now with one hand, even as his eyes dart about the small room as if in search of a secret exit. It’s not Sukey he has to worry about, but the music hall staff, the public that are likely waiting for him at the exit to the hall, his adoring fans.

Nathaniel has already turned to leave.

“I look forward to it,” he promises.


End file.
